


if it was mine, I wouldn't've put it in my mouth

by Anonymous



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Cunnilingus, Light Humiliation, Other, POV Second Person, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24940756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When Ronnie has you meet her at the cafe, it always puts you a little on edge. Which is, of course, the point.
Relationships: Ronnie Lee/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28
Collections: Schitt's Creek Anonymous





	if it was mine, I wouldn't've put it in my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> listen, it's just that Ronnie's really, really hot, okay?
> 
> I wouldn't have written this without encouragement. You know who you are. Thank you.
> 
> Title from the punchline of Ronnie's "triple entendre" joke in The Jazzaguy.

When you walk into the cafe she's sitting in a booth, facing the door. Her eyes meet yours, then go right back to her newspaper. You hesitate, but walk over to the table and slide in on the other side.

She doesn't say anything, not welcoming you, but not making you unwelcome, either. You can feel yourself flushing already. You know how this works, but it still takes you a minute to clear your throat and say, "Hi, Ronnie."

She lowers her paper immediately and looks right at you. You have to fight not to lower your gaze, but you meet her eyes directly. Her lips quirk up, just a hint, and it feels like a reward.

"Hey," she says. She's not going to make this easy on you. She never does.

"Are you, um." You have to stop and swallow. "Should I order some food?" When Ronnie has you meet her at the cafe, it always puts you a little on edge. Which is, of course, the point. When you meet at her house, things proceed a little more predictably, but you're never quite sure how things will go when you meet at the cafe. Sometimes the two of you will leave immediately, while other times she'll make you sit through a full meal. Once, she took you to the single-stall bathroom and had you right there, the side of your hand stuffed into your mouth to try and muffle your desperate noises, then made you go right back out and finish your lasagna.

But today, thank god, Ronnie folds her paper decisively and lays it on the table. "I already ate," she says. "Let's go."

Ronnie's truck is parked right outside the cafe, and you get in the cab without a word. She handles her truck like she handles everything else; well-practiced, confident, precise. Soon, you're going to have those hands on you. You shift in your seat, then shift again.

She glances at you, and you try to hold still. You're already close to your limit, though, and she can tell. "Hands on your thighs," she says.

You do it, your back straightening automatically as you take a deep breath.

"Higher," she says. 

You move your hands higher. The slide of your own fingers against your legs, even through your jeans, makes you swallow thickly.

"Higher," she says again. Your thumbs are almost in the crease of your legs now, and you can't help a shiver.

"Right hand, undo your button." 

Your eyes jerk to her face but she's not even looking at you, her eyes steady on the road. She doesn't say anything else but you see her lips tighten as you hesitate, and you hurriedly follow her instructions.

"Zipper too." 

You slide the zipper down, the sound unbearably loud in the silence of the cab.

"Left hand in your pants," she says. She's still not looking at you, except for maybe a flicker out of the corner of her eye. "Over your underpants," she adds.

You do as she says; of course you do. The fingers of your right hand dig into your thigh and you have to open your mouth wider to get enough air. You feel so hot under your own hand. 

"Rub," she says, and you struggle not to groan. "Not hard, and not fast."

You do as she says, keeping your hand as slow and steady as you can, almost as slow and steady as her hand would be. She doesn't say anything else for the rest of the car ride; it's only five minutes, but it feels like forever before she pulls up in front of her house. You force yourself to pull your hand out of your pants, half desperate for more and half relieved, and go to do up your zipper, but she makes a sharp sound and you freeze.

"Leave it," she says.

"But—" you say.

"There's no one around," she says, and it's true—the street is empty, but anyone could look out their window any time and see—

She raises an eyebrow at you challengingly, and you swallow hard and reach for the door handle. She gives you a small smile, a nod, and gets out of the truck, her door slamming decisively behind her. 

You stumble out your own side of the cab, feeling incredibly flushed and disheveled, as if anyone could see at a glance what you've been doing. What you're about to do. You follow Ronnie up the walkway to her door, through the door, close it gently behind you, and then you can breathe.

She toes her shoes off and you follow suit, slipping them into the little cubby that's not yours, precisely, but is always waiting empty for you when you come here.

She walks off without a word and you follow her, through the living room, past the closed door that you know leads to her bedroom, down the stairs, into the sparsely furnished room that contains only a bed, a chair, a table, and a dresser.

Today the dresser's closed, because Ronnie has already set out everything she intends to use on the table: a bottle of juice, three lengths of neatly coiled rope, and a pair of safety scissors. You can't take your eyes off them.

"Hey," Ronnie says from behind you. You've taken several steps into the room without even realizing. You turn to face her and she slides a hand into your hair, cradling the back of your head. Then she tightens her fingers in a fist. You feel your mouth drop open, your eyes blink once, twice. It doesn't hurt at all, it's just—firm. "Yes?" Ronnie says softly.

You try to nod, just to feel the tug of her hand against your scalp. Her lips quirk up, just a little, as if she knows exactly what you're doing and will tolerate it, at least for now. "Yes," you say, hoarse, and have to say it again, a little louder. "Yes."

She nods approvingly, and when she lets go of your hair you can barely stop yourself from swaying forward towards her. "Clothes off," she says, taking a step back. 

You take a deep breath and start fumbling for the buttons on your shirt. She watches you closely, her face still and almost unreadable, but her steady gaze makes you flush hot in mingled embarrassment and need. You fold your shirt carefully and place it on top of the dresser, then wiggle out of your pants and place them on top, then your underclothes. You know Ronnie doesn't stand for carelessness.

"Good," she says approvingly when you're naked in front of her, and you have to fight to keep your eyes from closing in pure pleasure. "On your back, on the bed."

You have no idea what she's going to do next, but you fling yourself on the bed eagerly. You could ask—she'd answer, if you asked, she always has before—but you don't need to know. You don't want to know. Whatever it is she wants to do to you, you want that.

What she wants is to bend one leg until your heel touches your buttock and then slide the rope around your ankle, and your thigh, and your calf, and itself, around and around until your fingers are digging into the bedspread trying to stay still and calm. It seems like an hour later when she finally tucks the ends in, tests the tension of the rope, and grunts with satisfaction. You take a shaky breath.

Then she does the same with your other leg. 

By the time she's done you're panting, staring unseeing at the ceiling. Her fingers have brushed over the bone of your ankle, the tender inner skin of your thigh, again and again but it's never enough. She's entirely focused on her task, careful of your comfort, but entirely ignoring your pleasure. You could die of need, except that you know that's not what she wants.

She looks you up and down, trussed up and entirely exposed to her. She strokes a finger down one rope where it presses into your thigh, and you can't help the sound you make. She doesn't mind, though, thank god. She smirks at you and does it again, then pulls at the rope, god, just a little but you can feel it digging into your skin and you can't—you can't—

"Wrists," she says, and you bring them together in front of you without a thought. She cuffs them with the last length of rope, loose enough that you can move them up and down a little, tight enough that you can't forget you're bound even for a second.

"Mm-hm," she says, looking you over with satisfaction. "Okay, roll over."

It takes you a second to understand, and another to try and figure out how. But you manage to awkwardly wiggle on to your belly. Your wrists are caught underneath you, your elbows pulled to the side to keep your hands well away from anywhere you know Ronnie doesn't want you to touch yet. The fronts of your thighs are burning a little, stretched out flat, but it's fine. You're okay. You're more than okay.

"Good," you hear Ronnie say, and then her hands stroke firmly down your back to your hips, and take hold. "On the floor now."

You freeze for a second—how are you going to do this, what if you can't, does she expect you to fall, what if you hurt yourself—but she's lifting you bodily to the side, her hands strong and sure on your hips, and in her hold you slide carefully to the floor. She makes sure you're stable before she lets go. Then you can hear her stepping away, the tell-tale creak of the chair as she sits down.

"Come here," she says.

You swallow, but you know you're going to do it. You carefully balance on your toes and knees, and shuffle around until you can see her. She's sprawled in the chair, her eyes fixed on you. She's unbuttoning her pants.

Saliva floods your mouth, and you have to swallow twice and take a deep breath before you start to shuffle carefully towards her. You can't afford to fall—you wouldn't be able to catch yourself, wrists and legs bound as they are. But she trusts you to do this right, to take care of yourself, not to rush. You're going to do it, carefully and correctly, because that's what she wants. 

By the time you make it the few feet over to where she sits, she's slid her pants and underpants together off of her legs, her legs spread with no hint of modesty. You can smell her. You have to swallow again, and again. God, you want her—but you'll wait, and she knows it. Her eyes are locked on yours as she unbuttons her shirt, steadily and without a hint of rushing, and then—oh god, oh fuck—unhooks the front clasp of her bra. You want to put your face there, between her breasts, lick the faint hint of salt from her skin, bite at the softness, slide your tongue over her nipple, you want to put your mouth _anywhere_ , please, anywhere she'll let you—

"Shh," she says, not unkindly, and you flush as you realize how much you just said out loud. But she says, "Since you asked so nicely," and your eyes jerk up to hers at her tone. She smirks at you, reaches down to slide a hand around the back of your head, just where it was before, and pulls you into her cunt.

You feel like you might die at the first taste of her, sweet and sour and salty and bitter, like nothing else in the entire world. You try to hold yourself back, to tease, to take it slow the way you know she likes it. You use your tongue on her clit, flicking the tip back and forth and up and down, and your lips too, and just a hint of teeth until you can hear her breath quicken, god, you _love_ that sound, you want more of it. And you know how to get it.

You try to move lower, try to get your tongue inside of her where you need it, where she wants it, but the angle is wrong. You pull back, then try again, but you overbalance and she has to pull you back up with a hand in your hair. 

"Hey," she says, pulling back further until you have to look up at her, and she's frowning, and you just want—

"Please," you say, not caring at all how broken and needy you sound. "Please let me, please let me try again, I'll do it right, I promise, just please let me—"

"Hm," she says, but her frown gets deeper. "Well. One more try." Her hand guides you down and thank god, your mouth is on her again. You want to do well, you want it so much, and you get your tongue in just the right place for just long enough that you can hear her sharp inhale, and then oh _fuck_ you're overbalancing _again_ and she's yanking you up and away. The sharp sting of it brings tears to the corner of your eyes.

"Nope," she says, entirely firm. "You're done."

You try not to whimper, you know you're not supposed to beg or plead, not when she sounds like that. But she doesn't rebuke you, only slides the hand that's not holding your head down between her own thighs. 

"Watch," she says.

You do. You couldn't possibly do anything else. You watch her fingers slide around her clit, down her labia, opening herself up and then back up again, spreading slickness all around until she's glistening with it. She sets a slow rhythm circling her clit, three long breaths and then down again and back up. You can't tear your eyes away as her thighs tense, then purposefully relax as she takes a long slow breath, then tense again. Her fingers move slower and slower, lighter and lighter, and you're leaning in so far her hand clenched in your hair is the only thing holding you up. You can see the exact second she comes and it's—god. You can see her cunt clench and open, again and again, her thighs quivering, her fingers still moving just a little, in such small circles, drawing it out and out and out until she finally heaves a sigh and relaxes.

"Stop that," she says, her voice heavy with satisfaction, and it's only then you notice the little whining noises you're making. 

You try to stop. You try hard, taking deep breaths and sitting up straighter, squaring your shoulders as much as you can with your wrists bound in front of you. Your thighs are starting to burn and you shift from side to side, welcoming the distracting sensation.

Ronnie notices. Of course she notices, even in the middle of her own post-coital satisfaction. She notices everything you do. "Wiggle your toes," she says. You do, immediately, flexing them against the carpet. "Think hard before your answer," she says, her eyes narrowing. "Everything good?"

You think hard. You focus on the sensation in each toe, the rasp of the carpet against the tips, the stretch of each muscle as you flex and curl. Only when you're entirely confident do you say, "Yes, Ronnie."

"Good," she says immediately, and slides the hand in your hair forward until she's cradling your jaw. You tilt your head into it, just a little. It feels so good. "I think," she murmurs, watching you through half-lidded eyes, "that you've been good enough that you deserve a little reward."

You don't know what she means at first. But then her hand on your jaw is firmly pressing your chin down and opening your mouth, and she's reaching out with her other hand, the one that— _oh_.

You want to suck her juices off her finger, scrape them off with your teeth, choke yourself on her. But you hold yourself back until you're shaking, and you close your lips gently around her finger, and you let your tongue roll along her skin, and you suck, and you swallow, and you let her pull her finger away.

"Good," she says again, her voice so warm and pleased, her eyes heavy on you. You heave in a breath, like it's the first you've taken in an hour. "In fact," she says, and pulls both her hands away. You almost whimper, swaying with the loss, but she says, "Why don't you clean me up."

Oh. Oh god. Oh yes, please, oh god, you don't know what you did for her to let you have this but you're going to do your best to deserve it. You spread your legs even wider, bracing yourself, and you lean in as carefully as you can, and you take a deep breath of her musk, and you go to work.

You start right in the center of her, licking at her oversensitive skin as delicately as you can, small flicks with just the tip of your tongue. You move up to her clit, following the path her fingers took, going even slower and lighter. Her breath is even above you, and you take that as a sign to go on. You move to the crease of her thigh, your cheek nestled up against smooth skin covering taught muscle, and you keep your tongue moving, licking slick and sweat off of her skin until you've cleaned every centimeter of her skin that you can reach.

When you finally pull back, your mouth feels dry and your cheeks feel sticky, and you're almost dizzy with your own need. You think you've done well, but she hasn't said anything. You're almost afraid to look at her, but you raise your eyes past the curve of her stomach, the swell of her breasts still framed by her unbuttoned shirt, the delicate skin over her collarbone, up to her face. And oh—she's smiling at you. She's smiling such a sweet, satisfied, proud smile, and you think you might burst apart into a thousand tiny shards.

"You," she says, low and pleased, "have been so good." You gasp, it's so good to hear. She nudges the inside of your thigh with her toe. "You've been so good that you deserve to come," she says, and pushes your legs even further apart. "Touch yourself."

You whimper, not sure whether you even can, the way your wrists are tied. But you want to, you _want_ to touch yourself with her eyes on you, that smile on her lips, her taste in your mouth, and you strain until you can just barely touch yourself with the sides of your pinky fingers. You can't get a rhythm going, you can't do even this much for long, the stretch in your forearms is painful, but you don't need much—just a little—just a little more—and then Ronnie slides her toe up your thigh and presses it right against you and you're flying.

You're not sure what happens after that, to be honest. You think Ronnie might have lifted you, because by the time you're aware that she's taking the rope off your wrists you're on the bed. She's saying something, soothing nonsense words, as she flicks the rope away and onto the floor without a second glance. She presses the tips of each of your fingers and nods in satisfaction, and it feels like she's approving of you. You can't stop shaking.

"Just another minute," she croons. "Just let me get your legs, hon, you did so well. Gotta let you stretch out those gorgeous legs of yours." She starts unwinding the rope around one of your legs, murmuring in pleasure as the red indentations they left are revealed. "Not a single scratch, honey, just these beautiful marks. You were just perfect, you took my ropes just right." With the ropes off she helps you straighten out one leg, then the other. She checks your toes as well, and then, thank god, climbs into bed with you. 

"Here," she says, and wraps one strong arm around your back. You cling to her, feeling ridiculous but completely unwilling to move away, half draping yourself over her, craving the touch of her bare skin. "Hold on," she murmurs, and reaches for the juice on the table. "Just one minute, just get some of this in you and you can rest. That's all, just some juice, you can do that for me, can't you? You've been so good for me, you can do this."

And you can, you can do anything for her, you can keep yourself upright to carefully tilt some juice into your mouth with shaking hands. It's exactly what you need, cool and sweet and refreshing. You take small sips just the way she tells you to, until she's taking the bottle away and praising you and finally, finally pulling your head down on to her shoulder. "You were so good," she says, her voice buzzing through her skin under your ear. "Rest now. You did good."

You believe her. So you close your eyes, and tilt your head just enough to drop a small kiss on the side of her throat, and you rest.


End file.
